1863
by Lopithecus
Summary: Clark meets Bruce in 1863 during the Civil War (Part of The Soul is But a Fragile Thing Series) [Part 2]


**1863**

 **A/N: This is the second installment for the _The Soul is But a Fragile Thing_ series. Though you don't need to read part one to read this, I highly recommend you do so. This is also for TheResurrectionist (on AO3).**

 **Warning: Graphic descriptions of examining a bullet wound and amputations during the Civil War. Major character death.**

 **Enjoy!**

Clark hurriedly wipes his bloody hands off on an already blood stained rag as a new rush of wounded soldiers are hauled into the tent. Most look as if they were shot, probably with a Minie bullet. The majority unfortunately won't be able to be saved, the wounds in places that aren't operable. Head wounds and shots to the stomach are a guarantee death sentence, along with any wounds to the chest. Clark briefly watches as the expiring bodies of the injured soldiers that won't be receiving treatment are brought to a corner of the tent. They will die there in the company of other corpses.

One of his assistants, John Jones, brings over a basin of water. The liquid twirls red as Clark takes the tools he had just used on another patient, and dips them in. "Put him there!" he yells at another man, Barry Allen is his name, whom is carry a soldier with a bleeding leg. Clark pulls his tools out, wipes them on his bloody apron, and approaches.

The man on the bed is groaning in pain, eyes screwed shut tightly. There is blood dripping from his mouth, most probably from a bitten tongue. Clark ignores that fact and brings his attention to the man's leg where he finds the bullet wound. It's half way up his thigh but there is too much blood to really examine it properly. Allen has left the tent to go back to the battlefield, collecting more bodies to bring over, so Clark calls upon Jones.

"Bring me those rags." Clark begins ripping away the fabric of the prone man's pants as Jones grabs some rags from the pile on the table. They are red with still wet blood and Jones dips them into another basin of water, squeezing them out. The man hands them off to Clark and moves on to help the other operator accompanying Clark.

He and Ray Palmer have been chosen to do surgeries, the commander deciding that they were the best of the five military doctors that are there. At the point of being promoted to operator, Palmer had only been going to medical school for two years but had never learned how to do surgeries. Clark on the other hand had zero experience in any medical school. The most he had known how to do was pull teeth. He learned on the job with little guidance by Palmer. There was no time for that kind of handicap. Adapting is what is needed for this job, and Clark is luckily a quick learner.

Clark runs the wet cloth over the wound on the soldier's leg, causing the man to scream in pain. The wound is large and gaping, muscle and tissue wounded beyond repair. Clark takes his finger and sticks it into the hole, rummaging for bits of cloth from the pants and splintered off bone. He finds the bullet and pulls it out as an assistant finally coming over and shoves a piece of wood into the man's mouth to bite down on, before leaving to assist Palmer who is yelling for help. Clark drops the bullet onto the ground and uses the cloth to clean out the wound more, bits of bone scraping onto the damaged skin. This man's leg will need to be amputated.

Blood spills out of the injury profusely. Usually they would wrap the wound in cloth and wait a day before the amputation but without immediate care, the man will surely die of blood loss. Clark looks around, finds Jones in the crowd, and calls to him. "Bring the Chloroform!"

Jones rushes over, a bottle and dirty rag in his hands. He pours a copious amount of the sweet smelling liquid onto the rag and holds it over the screaming man's nose. "Breathe deep," Clark hears Jones say above the agonized wails of the soldiers in the tent. Before long, the man passes out, his cries quieting into low moans before stopping completely.

"Good," Clark says to Jones, turning to him. "We need to amputate immediately"

Jones nods and grabs the scalpel and bonesaw off the table. He hands Clark the scalpel first and applies a tourniquet of fabric two inches above the wound. Clark then begins, starting with incisions through the skin and muscle on all sides, careful to leave enough skin on top to pull over the cut. He grabs the bonesaw next, wiping sweat off his forehead and leaving a streak of blood there. Clark lines the saw up with the bone, swallows, and begins to cut until the bone is severed. Jones takes the limb and throws it into the growing pile of other body parts. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Allen pulling a sheet over a soldier who has passed.

Clark takes the offered silk thread and begins to tie off the arteries, using his teeth to pull it tight. He grabs the scraper, ignoring the fact that Jones had to move on to help Allen with a man who is too delirious with pain to lie in bed, and starts to scrap the end of the bone, smoothing it out so it won't poke through the skin. He then takes the flap of skin that was left and pulls it over the cut, sewing it shut with more silk thread. Clark takes the isinglass plaster and applies it over the stump, administering bandages after. Once done, Clark removes the tourniquet and orders another assistant, Kyle Rayner, to transport the man to the recovery area. The whole process takes less than ten minutes.

With a quick sigh, Clark rinses his tools off and moves onto the next patient that will surely need the same treatment.

...

That night, it's quiet outside the tent, but inside, the moans of unimaginable pain fill the air. Men toss and turn, scream out for loved ones, wishing for death to finally come. Some will live, some will have their wish granted. For now, Clark sighs as the flow of soldiers arriving comes to a stop for now. It could start again at any moment, a surprise night time attack on any of the nearby camps causing more soldiers to come screaming in.

He walks around the tent, examining each body that has arrived. Some of the men are passed out, the pain becoming too much to bare and the only escape being unconsciousness. Many have developed surgical fever and Clark mourns them before their death even arrives. There is no escape from such a fever. Most will be gone by the morning.

Clark approaches the man from earlier, the one in which he had to amputate the leg immediately. The soldier is lying in bed, quiet from shock and drenched in sweat. He, too, has succumbed to surgical fever. Clark pulls up a stool and sits down next to the bed, something he doesn't often do but this man is drawing him in. He seems… familiar in some way, though Clark knows for certain he has never seen the man before in his life.

The soldier turns his head slowly and Clark tries to smile at him but when you are surrounded by so much death, it's hard to muster. "What's your name?" Clark asks him, deciding to get formality out of the way.

"Wayne." The man swallows. "Bruce Wayne."

"Clark Kent," Clark introduces. "It's nice to meet you, Mister Wayne."

Bruce's eyes travel the length of Clark's body. Sweat drips down his temple. "You the one who operated on me?"

"I am." Clark eyes the bandaged stump. "I had to amputate your leg. There was too much damage and blood loss not to."

Bruce's eyes look past Clark. The soldier has been moved closer to the corner with the headshot wounded soldiers. "Better that than getting shot in the head I suppose."

"Mister Wayne," Clark begins, feeling his chest constrict. He hasn't been this effected by a soldier dying in a long time, having gotten used to it by now. "Your amputation has gotten infected with something that we call pyemia. Unfortunately there isn't anything we can do."

Bruce's head turns, looking up at the ceiling. "I didn't think I would survive this war."

"I'm sorry, Mister wayne." Clark goes to get up but suddenly there is a hand on his wrist, holding him there.

"Please don't leave me." Clark peers down at the soldier. "I know you have other patients but… I don't want to…"

Clark sits back down. "Die alone." Bruce nods. "As long as no one else enters this tent, I will stay here."

"Thank you," Bruce whispers and then coughs painfully. Bruce's eyes are looking at him again and Clark's mouth grows dry. His heart starts beating fast and he realizes Bruce still has a hold of his wrist. "Have I met you before?"

Clark shakes his head. "No, I don't think so, Sir."

Bruce's eyebrows furrow. "You just… seem very familiar and I… I feel connected to you somehow."

Clark feels the same. Even having chosen this man to work on earlier, he had felt like he _needed_ to help him. There were other wounded men that he could have chosen, other men that might have needed him more, or he could have even decided that with so much blood loss, this soldier was a waste of time. Instead he had chosen to take on his case immediately, to operate without waiting, and to try to save this man's life. Now he is sitting by his bedside, holding his hand in his, and there is something brewing in his chest. Some kind of admiration that he hasn't felt for anyone before.

"Do you have a family, Mister Wayne?" Clark asks, bypassing whatever they are feeling between them.

A small, pained smile forms on Bruce's lips. "I have four boys." The soldier's eyes fill with tears. "The oldest is still fighting in the war but the second oldest… he died two weeks ago. I had just gotten word of it not even three days ago."

"I'm sorry for your loss." Clark squeezes Bruce's hand.

"The other two were too young to be drafted," Bruce continues. "They are home in New Jersey, with the help. He's an older man who raised me when my parents died." Bruce shakes his head, closing his eyes. "The government wanted him to join the war too but no one else was around to raise my boys."

"And a wife?" Clark prompts.

Again, Bruce shakes his head. "Three of the boys were taken in by me… the fourth… his mother… she didn't want him… gave him to me."

"He's a bastard child?" Bruce nods. "What are their names?"

Bruce's tears fall down his temples and he's staring at the ceiling. "It fucking hurts." He squirms. "My leg… it…" Bruce's breathing quickens and Clark tries to gain his focus back.

"Mister Wayne, what are your boys' names?" Clark asks.

Bruce moans, shutting his eyes and taking a deep, struggling breath as his body quakes in chills. He probably doesn't have much time left. "Richard, Jason, Timothy, and Damian." He slowly opens his eyes, gazing over at Clark. "Jason is the one who died. I can't… I can't be there for his funeral or for my kids. They said he got shot… he was shot in the head. They were lucky they could identify him." He moves again. "Oh, fuck."

Clark chuckles though there isn't anything to make light of. "You certainly have a mouth on you, don't you, Mister Wayne?"

Bruce glares at him. "You try having your fucking leg cut off and then come talk to me about having a fucking bad mouth."

Clark stares at the man, watches as Bruce's body produces too much sweat in order to valiantly cool him down only to fail in the end. Clark reaches over and grabs a cloth, dipping it into some cool water, and squeezing it. He squeezes it out and then runs it over Bruce's face. "I'm sorry I can't make the pain go away. It was the only way to save your life."

"And yet, here I am, fucking dying anyway," Bruce growls and something in Clark's heart breaks.

"To try and save your life," Clark amends as he tries to push past the heavy weight of grief pushing on his chest. "I'm sorry… Mister Wayne."

Bruce looks at him for a long few seconds, just observing Clark in silence. Then, "If you survive this Godforsaken war, will you tell Timothy and Damian that I love them."

"Sir, I…" Clark doesn't know what to say. "I don't even know where your children live."

"You'll be able to find it," Bruce insists. "Go to Gotham. Go to Gotham in New Jersey, ask around for Wayne Farm. The people there will be able to point you in the right direction."

"Are you famous?"

Bruce chuckles. "You could say that."

Clark smiles at the man, feels his own tears filling his eyes, and takes the soldier's hand in both of his. "Maybe that's how I know you."

Bruce shakes his head, face distorting into pain once again. "No, I… mostly just in Gotham. My parents owned a lot of farmland. They sold off half of it to families that needed it. Only people in Gotham really know me." He whines. "Kent, my leg."

Clark eyes Bruce's leg again. The infection is surely causing it to be much more painful than usual. He turns back to Bruce, continuing to try and distract the man. "What about Richard? I will be able to tell him too."

Bruce swallows, moves to try and sit up. "I can't… it hurts too much."

"Shh," Clark gently pushes him back down. "You must stay lying down."

Bruce shakes his head wildly. "It feels like it's on fire."

"Listen to me, Mister Wayne," Clark gets the man's attention. "What would you like me to tell Richard?"

Bruce lets out a shaky breath, body now violently shaking with intense chills. "You really think he'll… m-make it?"

"I do."

"He's in the front line. He… I need you… my leg… Clark, what happened… why does it feel like…" Bruce is no longer looking at him and Clark feels his heart completely shattering as he watches the man dive into delirium.

Clark's own tears fall from his eyes and he quickly looks around for someone to call to. "Rayner!" Rayner approaches him and Clark whispers into the young man's ear to bring the chloroform. Rayner does so quickly, face pale at seeing Clark's state of being. He's never seen Clark so broken up over a patient before.

Once Clark has the chloroform, in which he had Rayner pour onto a rag due to Bruce having his hand in a death grip, he carefully holds the cloth over Bruce's nose. Bruce has moved onto groaning and crying, squirming to get out of the bed. Clark squeezes the soldier's hand back, sniffling with grief.

"Shh, it's okay, Bruce," he whispers to the man as Bruce slowly falls unconscious. "It'll be over soon, I promise."

Rayner is still standing there, watching with wide eyes. "Mister Kent?" Clark hums to let the young man know he's listening. "Why did you do that? We usually let them be."

Clark hands the cloth back to Rayner and strokes Bruce's face with his free hand gently. "I… I don't know why. I just… felt like I needed to stop his pain."

Rayner is eyeing him, eyes flitting to Clark's hand on Bruce's cheek, and then back to Clark's face. "May I continue my rounds, Sir?"

Clark looks up at the kid and realizes just how young this man is. He shouldn't be seeing this. "Yes, you may." With a curt nod, Rayner turns and leaves, heading towards another bed with another moaning occupant.

Clark brings his attention back to Bruce. He continues to stroke the man's face, listening to him struggle to breathe. "I don't know what it is," Clark begins, whispering. "But I feel connected to you, too." He brushes some of Bruce's hair. "I am so sorry I couldn't save you."

Clark sits there for another ten minutes, careful to look for any wakefulness from Bruce. Luckily the man never stirs again and he soon passes away in his comatose state. Clark stands, letting the man's hand go and leans down, pressing his lips to Bruce's forehead. He kisses him there, lingering on the warm, sweat drenched flesh.

After a few seconds, Clark finally pulls himself away and goes back to work.

...

Clark knocks on the farm house. It's bigger than he had expected and it causes a feeling of intimidation to stir in his gut. The door is opened by an older man, the man Bruce must have been talking about. They shake hands and Clark introduces himself, asking for Timothy and Damian. He tells the older man, Alfred Pennyworth, that he was a friend of their father."

"Right this way, Sir." Clark follows the man inside to a study where Pennyworth asks him to wait. Soon, three boys show up in the room. "Mister Kent; Richard, Timothy, and Damian." Pennyworth then leaves, allowing the three some privacy.

"Hello," Clark reaches a hand out to shake, "my name is Clark Kent and I was friends with your father in the war." The boys exchange glances but soon Richard is reaching out and shaking his hand.

"Dick Grayson," he introduces.

Timothy is the next one to reach out, shaking his hand. "Tim Drake."

The youngest crosses his arms and glares. Dick chuckles. "That's Damian Wayne. Don't let his attitude scare you. He's a little softy at heart."

"Shut it, Grayson," Damian growls.

Clark eyes the three of them and he hadn't realized he would feel so relieved to know that Richard is alive and well. He clears his throat and begins to talk about what he came for. "I just wanted to let you all know that I'm sorry for your losses." Tim frowns and looks away, crossing his arms over his chest protectively. Damian bites his lip and Richard's smile disappears. "I didn't know Jason but Bruce told me what happened to him."

Dick takes a deep breath. "He was a good kid."

Clark nods, not doubting that statement. "I'm going to be honest here. I am mostly here on Bruce's behalf. He wanted you all to know how much he loved you." Clark swallows, lump forming in his chest. "I'm sorry I couldn't save him."

Tim's eyes are glazed over with tears and Damian's are filled with rage but Richard is staring at him in a way Clark doesn't know how to read. "I was in that war," Richard begins. "I saw what it was like to be a medic. Mister Kent, I'm sure you did all you could." Richard approaches him and places a hand on Clark's shoulder. "Thank you for trying."

Clark sniffles and wipes at his eyes, nodding. "Thank you, Mister Grayson."

Dick nods briskly and then lets his hand fall. "Why don't you join us for supper?"

"I wouldn't want to intrude."

"We…" Tim says, quiet and hesitant. "We could tell you about Bruce and Jason."

Dick smiles at him, warm and welcoming. "I insist."

Clark gazes at all three of them, feeling a warmth forming in his chest that wraps itself around the grief there. He feels himself smile, something he hasn't done in a long time, and with a short nod, he accepts Richard's offer.

 **A/N: Thanks for reading!**

 **Side note: Yes, I did research for this one too. :)**


End file.
